Bodyguard--Recruit (Book 1)

by Chris Bradford

  “Sit down,” ordered the policewoman, pointing to the chair in front of the desk.

  Connor reluctantly did as he was told.

  The policeman rejoined them, closing the door behind him. He handed his colleague a thick folder. The female officer stepped behind the desk, flicked on the lamp and sat opposite Connor. In its glare, Connor watched the policewoman lay the folder on the table and, next to this, place a notepad and pen. To Connor’s growing unease, the folder was stamped Strictly Confidential.

  He started to sweat. He’d never been in trouble with the police before. What could they possibly have on me?

  The officer carefully undid the folder’s string fastening and began to inspect the file. The towering policeman took up position next to his colleague and stared unflinchingly at Connor. The tension became almost unbearable.

  After what seemed an age, the policewoman declared, “If that girl files a charge against you—for assault—it would be a matter for the courts.”

  Connor felt the ground beneath him give way. This was turning out to be far more serious than he could have ever imagined.

  “So we need to take a full statement from you,” she explained.

  “Shouldn’t I call a lawyer or something?” Connor asked, knowing that’s what was always said in the movies.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” replied the officer. “Just tell us why you did it.”

  Connor shifted uneasily in his seat. “Because . . . there was a boy being mugged.”

  The police officer made a note. “Did you know this boy?”

  “No,” replied Connor. “And I never will. The ungrateful kid ran away.”

  “So why decide to get involved in the first place?”

  “They were calling him names and about to beat him up!”

  “But other people walked on by. Why didn’t you?”

  Connor shrugged. “It was the right thing to do. He couldn’t stand up for himself. It was four against one.”

  “Four?” repeated the police officer, jotting down more notes. “Yet you took them on alone.”

  Connor nodded, conceding, “I know a bit of martial arts.”

  The officer flicked through the files. “It says here you’re a black belt in kickboxing and jujitsu. I don’t call that just a bit.”

  Connor’s breath caught in his throat. How come the officer has this information to hand? What else do they know?

  “That’s . . . right,” he admitted, wondering if this would count against him. His instructors had always warned him to be careful about using his skills outside the dojo.

  “So let’s get the story straight,” said the policewoman, putting down her pen and looking Connor squarely in the eye. “You’re saying you put your life at risk for a complete stranger.”

  Connor hesitated. Am I about to plead guilty to an offense?

  “Well . . . yes,” he confessed.

  A hint of a smile passed across the policewoman’s lips. “That takes guts,” she said approvingly.

  Connor stared in astonishment at the policewoman’s unexpected praise. The officer closed her file, then looked up at the policeman and nodded.

  He turned to Connor. “Well done—you’ve passed.”

  Connor’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. “Passed what?”

  “The Test.”

  “You mean . . . like a school exam or something?”

  “No,” he replied. “Real-life combat.”

  Connor was now even more confused. “Are you saying that gang was a test for me?”

  The policeman nodded. “You displayed instinctive protection skills.”

  “Of course I did!” he exclaimed, feeling his frustration rise. “The gang attacked me—”

  “That’s not what we mean,” interrupted the police-woman. “You showed a natural willingness to defend another person.”

  Connor got up from his seat. “What’s going on here? I want to call home.”

  “There’s no need,” she said, offering a friendly smile. “We’ve already informed your mother that you may be running a little late.”

  Connor’s mouth fell open in disbelief. What on earth are the police up to?

  “We’ve had our eye on you for some time,” revealed the policewoman, rising from her chair and perching on the side of the desk, her manner becoming more relaxed and informal. “The attack was set up to test your moral code and combat skills. It had to be authentic, which meant we couldn’t warn you. That’s why we used trained operatives for the assignment.”

  Trained operatives? thought Connor, putting a hand to his split lip. No wonder they were so skilled at fighting.

  “But why?” he demanded.

  “We needed to assess your potential to be a CPO in the real world.”

  Connor blinked in surprise, wondering if he’d heard right. “A what?”

  “A close-protection officer,” explained the policeman. “By placing yourself in harm’s way to protect another, you proved you have the natural instinct of a bodyguard. You can’t teach that. It has to be part of who you are.”

  Connor laughed at the idea. “You can’t be serious! I’m too young to be a bodyguard.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” replied a voice from behind him in a clipped military tone.

  Connor spun around and was shocked to find the silver-haired man from the tournament standing right behind him.

  “With training, you’ll make the perfect bodyguard.”

  4

  “My name is Colonel Black,” the man said, introducing himself with a curt nod. Dressed in pristine chinos, polished black boots and a khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his appearance conveyed a life spent in the military. Up close, Connor could see the man had craggy features and a strong, chiseled jaw. His demeanor was at once disciplined and authoritative, his flint-gray eyes never wavering from Connor’s face. And although he looked to be in his late forties, he possessed the physique of a man ten years younger—broad-chested with tanned, muscular forearms. Only a ragged white scar cutting a line across his throat detracted from this flawless image, no doubt the result of active service.

  “I was most impressed with your performance today, both in and out of the ring,” he said. “You displayed true grit. Even when the odds were stacked against you, you didn’t give up. I like that in a recruit.”

  “Thank you,” replied Connor, too bewildered to say anything else. Then the colonel’s words hit home. “What do you mean, recruit?”

  “Take a seat and I’ll explain.”

  His invitation wasn’t quite an order, but Connor felt compelled to sit down anyway. The colonel walked around to the other side of the desk and took over the proceedings from the two police officers.

  “I head up a close-protection organization known as Guardian.”

  “Guardian?” Connor shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

  “Few people have. It’s a highly secretive operation,” the colonel explained. “So, before I continue, I must stress that this information is classified in the interests of national security and not to be repeated—to anyone.”

  The stern expression on the colonel’s face left Connor no room for doubt that there’d be grave repercussions if he ever did. “I understand,” he replied.

  The colonel took him at his word and continued. “In today’s world, there’s a demand for a new breed of bodyguard. The constant threat of terrorism, the growth of criminal gangs and the surge in pirate attacks all mean an increased risk of hostage-taking, blackmail and assassination. And, with the overt media coverage of politicians’ families, the rise of teen pop stars and the new wave of billionaires, adults are not the only target—children are too.”

  “You mean like that French movie star’s son?” interrupted Connor. The story of the boy’s kidnapping while on a sailing vacation had been
splashed all over the news.

  “Yes, they ended up paying a million dollars for his safe return. But it needn’t have happened in the first place—and wouldn’t have if the family had employed a close-protection team. And my organization provides just such a service. Yet it differs from all other security outfits by training and supplying only young bodyguards.” Colonel Black looked directly at Connor as he said this. “These highly skilled individuals are often more effective than typical adult bodyguards, who can easily draw unwanted attention. Operating invisibly as the child’s constant companion, a guardian provides the greatest possible protection for any vulnerable or high-profile target.”

  The colonel paused to allow everything he’d said to sink in.

  “And you want me to become a guardian?” said Connor dubiously.

  “You’ve got it in one.”

  Connor laughed uneasily and held up his hands in objection. “You’ve made a mistake. You must have the wrong person.”

  The colonel shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But I’m still in school. I can’t be a bodyguard!”

  “Why not? It’s in your blood.”

  Connor gave Colonel Black a baffled look. Then the colonel said something that completely threw him.

  “You’ll be following in your father’s footsteps.”

  “What are you talking about?” shot back Connor, suddenly going on the defensive. “My dad’s dead.”

  The colonel nodded solemnly. “I’m aware of that. And I was very much grieved when I heard the news. Your father and I were close friends. We fought together.”

  Connor studied the man before him, wondering if he was telling the truth. “But my dad never mentioned you.”

  “That’s understandable. In the SAS, we try to keep our personal and professional lives separate.”

  “Special Air Service? My dad was in the army, Royal Signals,” Connor corrected him.

  “That was his cover job. Your father was actually in the SAS Special Projects Team, responsible for counterterrorism and VIP close protection,” the colonel revealed. “One of the best.”

  This new knowledge unsettled Connor, who thought he’d known his father pretty well. “Then why did he never tell me that?”

  “As a member of Special Projects, your father had to keep his identity secret. To protect himself, you and the rest of your family.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Connor, gripping the arm of his chair for support. His whole world seemed to be shifting sideways as the long-held memory of his father was brought into question.

  The colonel removed a photo from his breast pocket and handed it to Connor.

  “Iraq, 2004.”

  Five soldiers in combat fatigues and carrying submachine guns stood before a barren patch of desert scrub. In the middle was a younger Colonel Black, his distinctive scar visible just above the neckline of his body armor. Next to him was a tall, tanned man with dark brown hair and familiar green-blue eyes—Justin Reeves.

  Connor was speechless. Gripping the photograph with a trembling hand, he fought back the tears at seeing his father’s face so unexpectedly.

  “You can keep that if you want,” said the colonel. “Now, on to your recruitment into Guardian.”

  “What?” Connor exclaimed, events moving too fast for him. “But I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  “True. But hear me out and you will.”

  Connor tentatively put his father’s photo down on the desk, reluctant to let it out of his sight.

  “First, your school will be informed of your transfer to a private school.”

  “Private school?” Connor asked. “My family doesn’t have that sort of money.”

  “You’ll be funded by a special scholarship scheme. Besides, we need an official cover for your relocation to the Guardian training camp. We must maintain the secrecy of our operation. No one can ever know.”

  “Relocation?” challenged Connor. “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave my mum. You’ll have to find someone else.”

  “We’re aware of your situation,” said the policewoman with a reassuring smile as she placed an envelope on the table for him. “We’ve made all the necessary arrangements to ensure she’s well looked after. And all the costs are covered.”

  Connor stared at the mysterious envelope, then at Colonel Black. “What if I don’t want to become a bodyguard?”

  “It’s entirely your decision. You’re free to go home, but I think you’ll regret it.”

  A truth suddenly dawned on Connor. “So I’m not under arrest?”

  “Whoever said you were?” replied the colonel, arching an eyebrow.

  Connor turned to the two police officers, then realized that neither of them had read him his rights or officially arrested him. They’d only asked him to accompany them to the station.

  “I’ll leave you to think about my offer,” said Colonel Black, laying a business card on top of the envelope. The card was black as night with an embossed silver logo of a shield sprouting wings. Below it was a single telephone number—and nothing else.

  The colonel nodded good-bye, then disappeared out through the door, the two police officers in tow.

  Connor was left alone in the room. He stared at the card, his mind whirling with the events of the past hour. His life had been spun on its axis—one moment he was being crowned UK Kickboxing Champion, the next he was being recruited as a bodyguard. He stared at the envelope, both intrigued and a bit afraid of what it might contain. He decided to leave it for later. He had other matters to think about first.

  Picking up the card, the envelope and the photo of his father, Connor stood and headed for the door. When he opened it, he thought he’d made a mistake and gone the wrong way. The lights in the foyer were all off, and the reception booth was deserted, the building silent as a grave.

  “Hello? Anyone there?” he called. But no one answered.

  He spotted his duffel bag on the counter. Stowing the envelope and photo next to his trophy and pocketing the colonel’s business card, he made his way to the main entrance. His footsteps echoed through the empty foyer. As he passed the bulletin board, he saw that the Neighborhood Watch meeting had been two years ago and briefly wondered why the announcement was still up. Pushing open the heavy double doors, he stepped outside into the gray evening light. Relieved to escape the tomb-like atmosphere of the station, he looked down the street for Colonel Black. But neither the colonel nor the police officers were in sight. Then, as the double doors slammed shut behind him, he noticed the terrorism poster had been taken down. An official blue-and-white sign was now visible:

  NOTICE

  THIS IS NO LONGER A POLICE STATION

  THE NEAREST STATION IS 444 BARKING ROAD, PLAISTOW

  Connor stared at the sign, stunned. The whole operation had been a setup!

  He felt in his pocket and pulled out the one thing proving the encounter had even occurred—the black business card with the silver winged shield . . . and a solitary telephone number.

  5

  “You’re late, Hazim,” the brooding man growled in Arabic through a mouthful of green khat leaves. The man, who boasted a thick, bushy beard, a hooked nose and sun-blasted skin the color of the deep desert, bared a row of brownish-yellow teeth in displeasure.

  “I’m sorry, Malik, but the plane was delayed getting in,” replied Hazim, bowing his head in deference to the man who sat like a king at the far end of the rectangular whitewashed mafraj room.

  Malik tutted in irritation, yet nonetheless waved him over to sit by his side. Hazim, a young man of Yemeni origin with dominant eyebrows and an angular face, almost handsome if not for his downturned mouth, nervously took his place among the other members of the Brotherhood.

  The room was full of men dressed in ankle-length thawb, their white cotton robes providi
ng relief from the heat of the day. Some were bareheaded, others wore red-and-white-checkered headscarves. They reclined on large cushions, left leg tucked underneath, right arm upon the right knee, and the left arm supported by a padded armrest. Before each was a pile of green stems from which they picked leaves to chew as they engaged in animated conversation.

  As was tradition in a mafraj room, there were two rows of windows, the upper set decorated in stained glass through which the late-afternoon sun scattered shards of rainbow colors across the thickly carpeted floor. The lower clear windows were pushed wide open to allow a cool breeze to waft in. Not accustomed to the country’s intense heat, Hazim turned toward one of the openings in relief. From the topmost floor of the house, he was able to admire the magnificent vista of Sana’a, the capital city of Yemen. The flat sun-dried rooftops of the myriad white and sand-colored houses stretched into the distance, where they met the awe-inspiring Sarawat mountain range.

  “Where’s your khat?” demanded Malik.

  Hazim held up his hands in apology. “Sorry. I was more worried about the CIA trailing me than shopping in the souk.”

  “Tsk!” Malik spat, batting away his excuse. “I won’t tolerate lateness or lack of respect for our traditions. Understand?”

  Hazim nodded, shifting uncomfortably under the man’s fierce gaze. Then, like quicksilver, Malik’s harsh expression switched to a genial smile, and he clapped Hazim on the back.

  “No matter this time, Hazim. You were right to be cautious. Kedar, give him some of yours,” he ordered a man to Hazim’s left. “A true Yemeni should never be without.”

  Kedar, a man of Herculean build with a wiry beard, offered Hazim a handful of green stems. Chewing khat was the social norm in Yemen. All men gathered together at the end of the day to sit down, chew khat and put the world to rights, just as Americans met in Starbucks for coffee and the English enjoyed a pot of tea—except the effect of chewing khat was the equivalent of several strong espressos in a row.